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Kristyn Hodgdon
Everything you’re feeling, but didn’t know how to say.
Keep Your (Witchy) Friends Close
This weekend was full of lots of girlfriend time, which — for a mom of three — is few and far between, deeply needed, and never (ever) taken for granted. On Saturday, a bunch of us went out for wine and apps. On Sunday, we regrouped with the husbands and kids to debrief, watch football, and… casually dabble in some tarot readings.
Yes, you read that right.
One of my closest friends reads tarot. She collects crystals. She keeps sage next to her bed like someone who absolutely would have been burned at the stake in the 1800s. And honestly… it tracks.
It tracks because we don’t really do typical mom small talk. We’re bad at it. We don’t want to linger on snack logistics or carpool calendars (important! but not our calling). We want to know the real you, the thing you’re circling but haven’t said out loud yet. Even if it makes you a little uncomfortable.
These are newer friends, too, which somehow makes it funnier. At one point, one woman, still assessing the vibe, laughed and asked, “Is this… normal?” Without missing a beat, I said, “Welcome. We’re not regular mom friends. We’re witchy mom friends.” Everyone laughed. She stayed, which felt like the point.
Because what we were really doing wasn’t fortune-telling. It was skipping the pleasantries. Creating space to say, “Something feels off,” or “I think I want more,” or “Why does this feel harder for me than it seems to for everyone else?”
One of these women is also the person who gently helped me recognize my own ADHD: the kind of friend who notices patterns before you do and says something when it matters. Looking back, it explains a lot.
Maybe that’s why none of this feels that strange. I’ve always been the kind of person who senses when something’s off before I can fully explain it, who wants to talk things through instead of letting them sit and get heavier than they need to be.
Motherhood can shrink your world if you let it. These women expand mine, reminding me that intuition isn’t mystical at all; it’s just paying attention.
So yes, keep your friends close, especially the witchy ones. They’re not here for the small talk — they’re here for the truth.
The New Reality of Googling Your Symptoms
The other night, I did what so many of us do when something feels off: I Googled it. Not a 2 a.m. WebMD spiral; just a quick scroll while brushing my teeth. Within seconds, an AI-generated summary appeared at the top of the page, confidently explaining what my symptom probably meant. It looked polished. Official. Comforting. And still, something about it made me hesitate.
Because AI doesn’t hedge the way humans do. It doesn’t say this depends or bodies are complicated or maybe check in with someone who went to medical school. It just delivers answers — clean and authoritative — which can feel comforting until you remember how often women’s health already lives in the gray: under-researched, under-explained, and too often underbelieved.
We’re living in an era where many of us are handing our worry, curiosity, and late-night spirals over to algorithms trained on… the internet. And while the web is great for product reviews and dinner inspiration, it’s a shakier place to land for medical guidance. When AI gets health information wrong, it doesn’t just confuse people; it can delay care, minimize symptoms, or offer false reassurance when someone should be paying closer attention.
Most of the time, what women actually need isn’t a definitive answer. It’s help slowing the spiral and figuring out the next right step. Health information shouldn’t escalate fear or shut down curiosity. It should leave us supported enough to ask better questions… with nuance and humanity baked in.
Life After the Longest Wait
My third IVF baby just turned one, which feels impossible, emotional, and, if I’m being honest, slightly disorienting. There were tears, obviously, but also something else: a strange clarity. Like I just woke up from an almost eight-year-long chapter devoted entirely to building, protecting, and expanding our family.
If you saw our Rescripted reel, you know he was the result of one last Hail Mary IVF attempt — a true “this is it” moment. If it didn’t work, we were ready to close that door. But it did, and now here we are: three kids, a full house, a family that finally feels complete.
Which begs a question I haven’t really had the space, or courage, to ask until now: who am I when I’m not chasing a pregnancy, managing fertility timelines, or defining myself by whether my body is cooperating?
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the small things that somehow feel big again. What hobbies I might want to revisit. What clothes I want to buy just because I like them. Where I want to travel when logistics aren’t the main character. And alongside that curiosity? Anxiety. Because reinvention, even joyful reinvention, comes with a whole lot of uncertainty.
I recently read a novel called Buckeye that put words to exactly what I’ve been feeling. There’s a line about time, how we spend it, waste it, regret it, and wish for it back. And then this: “All we should ever want of time is more of it.” A sentiment that feels both deeply comforting and completely terrifying.
For so long, time felt transactional. Measured in cycles, milestones, and fertility clinic waiting rooms. Now, it feels expansive again — a little scary, a little thrilling. But maybe that’s the point. This next chapter isn’t about rushing to fill the space or assigning it a purpose. It’s about sitting in it long enough to figure out who I am now... and who I want to be.
You Can Sit With Us (At the Doctor’s Office)
We recently shared a meme on Rescripted that said, “If you saw Mean Girls in theaters, it’s time to schedule a mammogram.” It was meant to be light and nostalgic — a reminder wrapped in humor — but it struck a nerve. Which makes sense, because it’s true. Not in a scary way. More in a “wow, how did we get here so fast?” way.
Somewhere between quoting Regina George and figuring out carpool logistics, many of us entered the phase of life where taking care of our health requires actual planning. Appointments don’t just happen. You have to make them, remember them, follow up on them, and sometimes advocate when something feels off, even if you can’t fully explain why yet.
The same goes for Harriet the Spy (RIP Michelle Trachtenberg, a real loss in 2025). If that movie lived rent-free in your childhood brain (the curiosity, the notebook, the ingenuity!), it might be time to bring that same energy into your own care. Asking for a full thyroid panel isn’t being dramatic; it’s being informed and trusting that you know your body best.
What no one really prepares us for is how proactive women have to be to stay well: how much mental energy it takes, and how easy it is to put ourselves last when everything else feels louder and more urgent.
But caring for your health isn’t just a response to getting older. It's an investment in staying here, fully present, for the life you’re still building. So laugh at the meme, share it, and then do the very grown-up thing: take yourself seriously enough to make the appointment.
Re-Seeking Joy (And Trusting My Own Taste Again)
I’ll never forget when a high school acquaintance once said to me, “Kristyn, I love how you’ve always had your own personal style.” At the time, I don’t think I realized just how deeply that would stick. But even now, years later, it still feels like one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.
In my teens and early twenties, I was peak me. I spent whatever disposable income I had on Broadway tickets, wandered Strand Bookstore like it was church, and proudly carried faux designer bags from Chinatown. I flirted with trends (hi, Juicy suits and Air Jordans), but I never let them lead. I followed my instincts. I dressed, decorated, and lived for myself.
Then… social media happened. And not long after, motherhood followed.
Suddenly, there were rules. Influencers decided what was chic and what was cringe. Homes had to be aesthetic. Outfits had to be “timeless.” Even joy felt curated. This year, while decorating for Christmas with pieces I’ve collected and loved over time — items that don’t perfectly match but feel like me — I caught myself thinking: "Nothing goes together. What will people think?" (As if my family members were showing up with scorecards.)
That was the moment it clicked.
One year postpartum, emerging from a fog, exhausted by scrolling and craving something more analog and less performative, I realized my intention for the new year is simple: re-seek joy. Not the algorithm-approved kind — the kind that feels intuitive, personal, and maybe even slightly rebellious.
So far, that’s looked like wallpapering the back of a shelf in my very outdated kitchen, thrifting an Anthropologie dress for $52, and buying bold emerald green costume earrings just because they made my heart beat faster. It’s remembering that I’m a mom, yes, but I’m also someone with taste, curiosity, creativity, and a nervous system that still lights up over color, texture, and possibility.
It turns out, joy doesn’t have to match. It just has to feel like home again... and like mine.
The Legacy We Leave
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Needless to say, it’s been an extremely sad news week. One of those weeks where every time you open your phone, your chest tightens just a little bit more. They say death comes in threes, and this one certainly made its case.
A shooting near Brown University that cut short two bright, promising young lives. Violence at Bondi Beach during a Hanukkah gathering: a moment meant for light, joy, and community, shattered instead by fear. And the deeply disturbing deaths of Rob and Michele Reiner, taken violently by their own son.
There’s no neat way to make sense of any of that. It’s senseless and horrifying and leaves you with that familiar, helpless question: What is wrong with the world?
And yet (because Instagram is always listening), my feed started filling up with posts about Rob and Michele Reiner from friends, colleagues, and celebrities alike, people who clearly didn’t just know them, but loved them deeply.
What struck me was how often the same things came up: their patriotism, their humanity, their devotion as parents, and their loyalty as friends. They were people who showed up, who cared loudly and consistently, and whose absence leaves behind a real, aching void.
It made me think about how, when everything else falls away, the way we live and the way we treat others is the only legacy that actually lasts. Not the money, not the followers, not the headlines, but the imprint we leave on the people around us.
And maybe that feels especially heavy right now as we head into the holidays, a season that’s supposed to be about warmth and connection but often ends up feeling rushed, transactional, and emotionally overdrawn.
It got me thinking that legacy isn’t always something we set out to create. It isn’t about grand gestures or changing the world overnight, but about the quieter choices we make every day: calling the friend you’ve been meaning to check on, being more patient with your kids when everyone’s running on fumes, or offering a little extra grace to the stranger who clearly needs it. It’s about showing up in the small, unglamorous moments — the ones no one is applauding, but that somehow matter the most.
That idea stayed with me. Especially because, almost immediately after, I started watching the P. Diddy documentary, and the contrast couldn’t have been starker. Power hoarded instead of shared. Harm buried instead of healed. It was a reminder that no matter how carefully something is curated, the truth eventually surfaces.
The bad stuff always comes out, so if that’s the case, make sure it’s good stuff.
As the year winds down, show up kindly, love loudly, and leave a legacy that speaks for you when you no longer can.
Protecting My Delusional Optimism at All Costs
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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how the energy we put out has a way of circling back. So when I came across a reel the other night that honestly spoke to my soul, it felt… timely. Jolie Steel was talking about how you can accomplish “damn near anything you want,” but how you go about it matters just as much as getting there.
You can push, force, hustle, control — all fear-based — and yes, you might reach your goal. But you won’t feel calm once you arrive. You’ll still be gripping everything tightly, waiting for something (anything) to go wrong.
Or you can move through life with trust — opening, allowing, receiving, believing things will come together without micromanaging the universe. And when you get there from that place, you actually get to enjoy it. That idea hit me in all the right places.
A little while later, I stumbled on a TikTok from Lucie Fink about how her mom used to tell her, constantly, “You’re so lucky. Good things just happen to you.” Even about the tiny things. And how that shaped her whole attitude, not because her life was perfect, but because she learned to expect that good things would find her.
It made me think about my own default settings. I’ve always been a positive person. I joke that I wear rose-colored glasses when it comes to other people, but it’s true: I look for the good. And I don’t plan on losing that part of myself. Infertility, and losing one of my best friends to breast cancer, taught me that life can be brutal... and somehow still full of bright spots, even in the darkest moments.
For me, it really comes down to this: the energy you put out tends to be the energy you get back. And I’m choosing to keep putting out something hopeful.
The Postpartum Chapter That Doesn’t Make the Baby Books
I like to joke that my postpartum experience with the twins was “a lot,” but honestly, that doesn’t even scratch the surface. A vaginal birth with Twin A, a C-section with Twin B, and a postpartum period that brought more challenges than I expected — physically, mentally, and emotionally — it was the kind of initiation into motherhood that changes your brain chemistry in ways you don’t fully understand until much, much later.
So with my third baby (who somehow turns one next week!), I thought I might finally get a simpler recovery. And in many ways, I did. No intense, overwhelming moments, no medical emergencies. I felt strangely… okay.
Until postpartum brain fog showed up.
And not the occasional forgetfulness; the kind where focus feels slippery, words disappear, and everyday tasks require way more effort than they should. As someone whose mind moves a while a minute, I’m no stranger to misplaced thoughts, but this was different. My usual quirks suddenly had layers I couldn’t explain.
The science actually does explain it, though. After birth, estrogen and progesterone levels drop rapidly, and both hormones influence cognition and mood regulation. Sleep fragmentation disrupts the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for planning, memory, and attention. And pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding can deplete nutrients like DHA, choline, B vitamins, and iron, all of which support neurotransmitter function and mental clarity.
That’s why I started Needed’s Cognitive Support. It’s built around nutrients and botanicals that actually support cognition postpartum, especially when you’re dealing with hormone shifts, sleep loss, and, in my case, ADHD. It includes Alpha-GPC, a bioavailable choline source for memory and attention; Sensoril® ashwagandha to help regulate occasional stress when sleep is fragmented; Bacopa monnieri to support memory and processing; CognatiQ® coffee fruit extract, a stimulant-free ingredient shown to support cognitive performance; and phosphatidylserine, which helps maintain healthy brain cell function. For me, it hasn’t been a dramatic before-and-after — just a steadier, more accessible version of my brain on the days I need it most.
I’ve loved Needed’s products for years and truly depend on them, which is why I’m so excited to finally be partnering together. If you’re thinking about trying them, use my code GIRLHOOD20 for an extra 20% off your first purchase. It even works on subscriptions and already discounted plans!
If you're in the thick of it, remember this: postpartum brain fog is real, it’s common, and it does lift... even if you need a little bit of help to get there.
Ask Clara:
"Why does postpartum brain fog happen?"
Another Decision for Parents Who Can’t Even Pick a Show
This week, ACIP (the CDC’s vaccine advisory panel) voted 8–3 to change the long-standing guideline that all newborns receive the Hepatitis B vaccine at birth. If the baby's mother tests negative for Hep B, the shot is now categorized as “shared decision-making.” Translation: parents and providers will decide together whether to give it in the hospital or delay it.
My first reaction was immediate and visceral: If this decision had been handed to me in those first 24 hours postpartum, I would’ve spiraled. I remember lying in that hospital bed after my twins were born — exhausted, stitched, overwhelmed, trying to make sense of what had just happened to my body and my life. If someone had asked, “Do you want the Hep B vaccine now or wait?” I wouldn’t have had the capacity to process the question, let alone the risk.
But here’s why the birth dose existed in the first place. Since the early ’90s, universal newborn vaccination has helped drive childhood Hep B infections down by roughly 99%. The vaccine is extremely effective when given within 24 hours, and infants who contract Hep B are far more likely to develop lifelong chronic infection, which can lead to liver disease and cancer. Screening helps, but it isn’t perfect — infections can be missed, acquired later in pregnancy, or come from household contacts.
The American Academy of Pediatrics responded almost immediately, reaffirming that the birth dose is still the safest, most effective way to protect infants, emphasizing that chronic infection is far more likely when the vaccine is delayed. In their words: timing matters.
That’s what made the birth dose a safety net. A simple, predictable layer of protection.
Now? Parents may get different answers depending on the hospital, the provider, or the philosophy of the moment. And that feels less like choice and more like pressure, especially for people who are already depleted, hormonal, and trying to keep a tiny human alive.
If you’re expecting, consider asking about Hep B before delivery, when your brain is still functioning. And ask directly: “What’s the actual risk of delaying this?” Their answer might tell you more than the policy does.
Learning to Let People Not Be “My People”
It’s taken me 36.75 years to realize that not everyone has to be my cup of tea. Which, if you know me, feels almost groundbreaking. I should start by saying: I’m a Pisces. I generally assume I’ll get along with most people, and honestly, I usually do.
I’ve never been someone with a huge group of best friends — I get along with many, but I’m close with a select few. Still, there are very few people in this world I genuinely struggle to have a conversation with.
And yet, last week at a holiday party, I met someone where… it just wasn’t landing. The small talk felt effortful. The energy was off. And of course, instead of just moving on with my life, I spent the next 48 hours replaying every interaction like I was studying game tape.
Was I awkward? Did I misread the whole thing? Why is this bothering me so much?
Somewhere around Sunday night, it finally clicked: it’s okay if I don’t connect with everyone. It doesn’t make them wrong. It doesn’t make me wrong. It just means we’re not each other’s people, and that's allowed.
But for someone who’s spent most of her life trying to be approachable, warm, and easy to talk to, that realization felt like unlearning a very old reflex — the belief that if the vibe is off, I must have caused it. When really, sometimes two humans just aren’t a fit. No drama, no deeper meaning, no character flaw to investigate.
Protecting my energy, I’m learning, means accepting that not everyone will get it (or me). And that maybe nothing has to be “wrong” for two people not to click. A reminder that not every interaction deserves a postmortem, and not every mismatch needs fixing.